North Peru-

I arrived in Piura at about 18:30 and immediately noted the rise in humidity . I had decided to fly from Lima, sparing myself the 20 hour bus ride and buying myself some more beach time before I needed to be in Ecuador.

Piura, an inland city of Peru, not 100km from the northern coast was strikingly similar to Thailand . When I arrived at the bus station to buy my ticket to mancora, I was surprised to find there were still buses going out well into the night. I was due to arrive at around 11pm, and I hadn't the slightest idea of where I would sleep or how to get there. Like in most cases, I would figure it out when I arrive. Sure, 11pm in a South American town as a female alone doesn't sound like the greatest idea to some, but it had become the norm. Seeing as how all I had eaten was a lousy breakfast of hollow bread with jam and an even lousier overpriced airport empanada, I decided to kill the hour and a half until the bus departure by walking around looking for something to eat. Piuras streets were strangely crowded with vendors selling everything from bra straps to fried meat, mechanical parts and housewares, fruits and fresh sugar cane juice served in a precariously thin plastic bag with a straw floating in it helplessly. Not wanting fried meat (again), food was nowhere in sight apart from one severely pricy chifa (local variety of Chinese food. In following, Chinese fried rice in peru would be called "chaufa" . My guess was that it originated from chow fun, but what did I know). Walking through the crowded stalls and sidewalks packed with working class diners on plastic chairs and stools, I felt like I was in Southeast Asia, apart from the occasional cat calls and hisses. I linked my hands over my backpack so as to take up less space. My pocketknife was in my right pocket as usual with my phone . A water bottle crunched slightly in my left as I walked. Once again I was the only solo female and the only tourist. Walking around with my giant muchila, bright pink rain cover still pulled over its fabric, I stood out like a whore in a monestary. It didn't bother me though. The glances slid off of me like raindrops on tarp. I settled for a banana, puffed corn and purple grapes which turned out to be quite sour, to my pleasant surprise. I dodged cockroaches as I made my way back to the station. Thinking just how the ocean would sound at night. The feeling of its presence without actually being able to see it. The silence and the waves, the foam, the backwash receding. And maybe wind through some palm trees, a group of people talking, barely audible in the distance . The sound of glass bottles clinking and occasional laughter. Tomorrow I would surf. How long had it been. Months. I had surfed with a friend's roommate's busted up softboard on a day when the waves were half a meter. I managed to catch maybe one or two before the sun set. The water was cold. But the sunset reminded me of summer and made me feel warm as though nothing had changed. 

That must have been in February or early march. I hadn't surfed the last week I was in Tel Aviv. I had seen the shore line from far in Lima and along the road to Arequipa in the south. I had turned my body fully in the bus seat and leaned forward to stare out the window, no doubt a stupidly happy expression on my face. There were barely any waves but just watching the foam ripple along the coast made my heart leap. In a few hours I would smell the sea . The pacific that had taught me how to catch a proper wave was about to take another ride on me. I would suffer its wrath no doubt, and then we'd learn to be friends. But first, a bed.